


To Scratch An Itch

by Pride_of_Six



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Barebacking, Dark Derek, First Time, M/M, POV Derek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-06
Updated: 2017-12-06
Packaged: 2019-02-11 08:57:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12931902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pride_of_Six/pseuds/Pride_of_Six
Summary: “Are you this flirty with all of your customers?”“N-no,” he replied with an internal apocalypse in the making as he scrambled for something suave to say, “Just, uh, just with the ones who appreciate my… package.”Apparently he was a natural, or perhaps Stiles was easy, but he got the desired result when the other man bit his lip and let out a nervous little puff of air. His eyes tracked to the front of Derek's trousers blatantly and awkwardly before flitting away.~~~AKA Derek is a reclusive, loner, serial killer mail man (but we don't explore it too much) but then he meets Stiles and it's a different urge that begs to be satisfied.





	To Scratch An Itch

Derek Hale had met a lot of people in his many years of living. It was all a part of his gig as a delivery man.

He procured a package, he delivered said package, and then he (frustratingly) had to engage in some degree of pleasantries with his clients before it was professionally acceptable for him to vamoose. It happened like that day in, day out; perhaps thirty times a day, six days a week. And every person he interacted with in his business was just another notch on his list of faces that made his blood run cold and his nerves scream.

Because Derek had never met a single person in his entire life whose light he didn’t want to snuff. Perhaps it was a visceral reaction to the brutal slaughter of his family by his fanatical ex-girlfriend, or perhaps it was just something he was born with. He knew that made him a monster, and he also knew that every time he murdered somebody it was just a Band-Aid on a larger, deeper problem that would never go away. But what he knew didn’t seem to matter when faced with the reality of getting to witness the life drain from another human being. To watch them take their last breath was more special to Derek than love or sex; to watch their blood ooze from open wounds was more valuable than money or fame; and to watch their eyes wild with panic before finally, finally embracing the sweet and inevitable release from the pain was more beautiful than anything Derek’s mind could possibly bring to the forefront.

At least, that _was_ true until Derek met Stiles.

It happened on an unsuspecting Wednesday (because it seemed to be one of the universe’s rules that all things happened when you least expected them to) when Derek was delivering perhaps the most benign thing he could possibly imagine: a book called… Teen Wolf. Like, seriously, who even bought books anymore? Didn’t everybody just download digital copies of those kind of things now? Derek could feel his preternatural urges developing already for the faceless man— _Stiles_ (according to the delivery tag, and what kind of name was that, anyway?)—that he was inevitably going to have to interact with when he arrived. Perhaps if the timing seemed right he might just beat the stranger to death with his own book and then be on his way. It was perhaps a bit reckless compared to his usual motive, but on this particular Wednesday the urge was feeling just a bit worse than usual.

Still, he didn’t want to have to move towns again unless it was truly necessary, so as he pulled up to the address of the illusive ‘Stiles’ who had ordered the novel, he steeled his expression into something that hopefully didn’t scream: ‘I’m a serial killer!’ and he made his way up to the unassuming doorway to the quaint urban home.

“Delivery!” he called out with a slightly elevated voice, knocking his trademark seven times on the door. Not a second after he knocked the seventh time the door opened to reveal… a man.

And it really, really shouldn’t have caught Derek so off-guard to be greeted by a man, even if the name ‘Stiles’ was bizarre and nondescript he still naturally assumed the stranger to be of the male gender… but hot damn, what greeted him now was far, far from anything he could have predicted.

The most glaringly obvious sign that something was very wrong—or perhaps very right?—in the universe was the fact that the moment Derek laid his eyes upon this… this ‘Stiles’ in the flesh (his juicy-looking, pale flesh), the icy thrumming of his blood just stopped. He’d been getting himself worked up all morning into something of a frenzy, knowing that he’d have to take the edge off at some point in the next few days and already brainstorming potential victims (his bitch of a neighbour, Kali; Jackson, the dickhead who loved to park his car across as many spaces as possible outside of the building; or maybe that frustratingly persistent FBI Agent McCall? The options were endless)… but now, somehow, just by laying eyes upon this stranger, the edge was gone.

Correction, it wasn’t gone, that was a lie. It was still there, it would always be there. Deep down and buried inside Derek would always be that untameable urge to butcher. Today, though, there was another, more pressing urge that was nagging at him. Now Derek mightn’t have been a scientist in the field of biology, but he was pretty sure he could identify the urge based on what was going on in his pants at the moment: “Fuck,” Derek uttered, intelligently. At this point he was more than a little unsettled at his complete 180, though, so historians should be able to forgive his minor slip-up.

It might not have been notable for a lot of people (hell, even Asexuals probably got more action than him at this point), but Derek hadn’t had anybody that gave him ‘inspiration’ (for lack of a better term) in what must have been several years. Occasionally, if he was in a decent mood, he’d even try seducing one of his victims beforehand. Every time, without fail, he would get bored and uninterested far too quickly and would end up using his own hand just to get things over with. The _things_ in that terminology meaning both his own arousal _and_ the pesky life of his victims.

“Excuse me?” Stiles spluttered, looking alarmed. He looked… young, vulnerable, and generally similar to most of Derek’s preferred victims, yet there was something deeper than looks and chemistry here. That something felt reminiscent of destiny, and that thought alone from Derek was dangerous.

Maybe Derek’s expression had reverted back to its usual ‘I’m a serial killer’ glare and it was freaking the other man out. “Sorry,” he apologised, trying to work his face back into something that was hopefully a bit less intense. He held out the suddenly much more important book parcel out to him. Past Derek notwithstanding, anybody that dared to suggest that still having physical copies of books was stupid would have to answer to him. “You, uh, ordered this?” his voice sounded too gruff to his own ears and he wanted to claw his own face off because of it. Suddenly, a life time of avoiding conversation and being an outcast were catching up with him because the _one_ person he’d met in _years_ that he actually wanted to be able to connect with was looking at him like he was a standoffish prick. And maybe that’s exactly what Derek was… but it still just seemed wrong that he couldn’t do something to sway Stiles’ opinion of him.

“Oh, cool,” Stiles acknowledged, and he reached out to grasp the other side of the package. They engaged in an unexpected, uncomfortable and inexplicably erotic (on Derek’s side of things, anyway) game of tug-of-war with the package before Derek finally relented and let him have his book. He stared, enraptured, at Stiles’ lips for so long he dissociated from the world. They only startled him out of his trance when they started to move. “So, thanks,” Stiles said, and then paused to squint at something on Derek’s shirt. Probably his name badge, but he was still transfixed by Stiles’ lips and completely unwilling to look away from them for a _second_. “Derek.”

Derek had always thought his name sounded kind of mainstream; kind of boring. His name sounded better, somehow, when it was uttered by the other man. Derek wanted him to say it again and again in a dozen different stages of exertion. Derek, Derek, Derek. And then perhaps Stiles would want him to respond in kind? Perhaps he’d love to hear what Stiles’ voice did to him. In his mind’s eye he could already see them on Derek’s bed, hips flush together, as Stiles begged for Derek to give him what he wanted. The thought made him feel heady and disoriented. “Fuck,” he said, for the second time in their short, but already disastrous (yet ground-breaking), conversation.

This time, though, Stiles smiled at his crudeness. It took an embarrassing amount of Derek’s willpower to not just tackle and mount him then and there, right on his doorstep, but he persevered... barely. “Are you this flirty with all of your customers?”

For one, awestruck moment Derek was alarmed because Stiles must have been able to tell what he’s thinking, and _that’s_ undoubtedly a recipe for disaster given every other aspect of Derek’s life. For every moment beyond that first one, though, Derek is soaring far above any of his worries because he might not be a master of social situations, but he’s 99.9% sure that Stiles is flirting with him now in the scenario. And it might be dangerously unfamiliar territory, but it’s still a step in the right direction for Derek’s purposes. “N-no,” he replied with an internal apocalypse in the making as he scrambled for something suave to say, “Just, uh, just with the ones who appreciate my… package.”

Apparently he was a natural, or perhaps Stiles was easy, but he got the desired result when the other man bit his lip and let out a nervous little puff of air. His eyes tracked to the front of Derek's trousers blatantly and awkwardly before flitting away. Was this happening? The whole situation seemed almost alien to Derek at this point. It occurred to him that he’d been gawking at Stiles for pretty much their whole conversation without a moment’s reprieve, so he did his best to avert his gaze and look at something else. As tantalising as the man’s eyes were, he wasn’t going to scare him off by getting completely lost in them. He tried to remember how things like this worked in the movies he’d sometimes catch people watching. They were never really his preferred genre, but now he wished they were so he’d have some idea what people found romantic. Weren’t flowers romantic? Should Derek bring him back flowers to make his intentions clear? Or was that specifically for women? What the hell did people get males as romantic gifts, or were they just expected to suck it up and deal with the fact that they never got something? That seemed a bit archaic, but still there wasn’t anything popping into Derek’s mind so perhaps he’d just have to go with flowers and pray for the best.

“I—” Stiles started, and immediately Derek’s attention snapped back to him. He started and cut himself off several more times before apparently settling on what he was going to say: “I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but… do you maybe wanna—”

“Yes!” Derek declared, and then internally seethed at himself because he’d just cut off Stiles from… from what? Asking him out? It certainly seemed to be that way but there was always a chance that Derek was just massively misreading the situation; it wouldn’t be the first time. “I mean, Stiles, do you want to—”

“Yes!” Stiles interrupted, and Derek was both surprised and pleased. He’d been interrupted by somebody, and for the first time in his life he didn’t have a surge of anger at that. Instead it was a surge of… something different. Derek hadn’t smiled a real smile in God-knows-how-long, and his face kind of hurt as he smirked widely with his teeth for the first time in eons. The incongruence of the situation was making Derek’s head spin because nothing like this had ever happened to him. He’d never met anybody that made his chest feel tight, he’d never flirted with anybody in a way that made his pants feel tight, and he’d certainly never smiled at anybody that made his cheeks feel tight. Everything was just too much but also nowhere near enough all at once, and he loved it; craved it.

“Tonight at 7:00?” Derek suggested, because already he was formulating a plan to take Stiles home tonight and promptly keep him there forever. It would only take a few hours to prepare everything. But was that same night they’d just met too soon? Delaying the inevitable just seemed so… pointless, though.

“Sure,” Stiles replied, nodding eagerly, and a massive weight was lifted off of Derek’s shoulders. It wasn’t uncommon for people to be eager to spend alone time with Derek—in-fact it was how he lured in a good deal of his victims—but never had he found somebody’s eagerness pleasant, let alone as overwhelmingly arousing as Stiles’.

“I’ll pick you up,” he promised, feeling like there was no blood left in his head, “See you later, Stiles,” he called back as he turned and made his way back to the van, floating the whole way. He distantly heard Stiles asking if he had to sign anything, but that all seemed so unimportant now. As it was only one thing mattered, and that was _Stiles_ and _tonight at 7:00_.

It only took a few minutes of driving for the dark urge to creep its way back underneath his skin, but for some reason the promise of just seeing Stiles again that night nullified it to barely an itch. And it was so minute that he wasn’t sure which urge it was that the itch was causing by: whether it was an itch of wanting to choke the life from a stranger, or whether it was an itch of wanting to fuck the life out of Stiles.

Needless to say, he had a conflicted erection on the rest of his route, and he mumbled to himself in a melodious lullaby: “Stiles, Stiles, Stiles.” 

 

It was an admirable 6:30 when Derek pulled up outside of Stiles’ house. The sun was just beginning to slip below the horizon, and it bathed the world in a haunting bastardisation of the bright gold and reds that it usually would. Whatever it was that Stiles might have been suspecting was going to come from their electric meeting earlier that day, Derek was vibrating with excitement at the prospect of absolute surprising him with the reality.

Perhaps Stiles was hoping for a movie, or dinner at a fancy restaurant, or some kind of other cliché date. Perhaps Stiles had already been with a dozen partners and he thought Derek was going to be just another notch on a list of people the young man had slept with. Somehow the latter thought made Derek’s lips pull back and his teeth gnash, but he didn’t want to think about that.

Derek wanted to think about what the impending night might hold for the pair. It was past the point of denying that Stiles was something special for Derek. What that ‘special thing’ would end up being was anybody’s guess, but one thing that he knew for sure was that he wasn’t going to let it pass him by. Nothing and nobody got to slip through Derek’s fingers; that’s how he’d made it this far in life doing what he did.

Tonight Stiles and Derek would spend a lovely evening together at Derek’s small unit, and then they would sleep together. Then, depending on how things went, either Derek would cut Stiles open the next morning, or Derek would keep him there in perfect health so that he didn’t need to feed his urges any longer. Derek was, of course, routing for the latter as it was mutually beneficial and would mean a lot fewer messes had to be cleaned up (being a successful serial killer was hard work), but if all it took was one night to pump his system clean of whatever Stiles-induced chemical high he was feeling, then it wasn’t like he was going to tether himself to some one night stand. If things both started _and_ ended tonight, then Derek was going to make sure that they ended absolutely.

The evening was going to end up being arguably torturous if Derek’s sudden onset libido was any indication, but, even if this was a new feeling for him, he had an instinctive knowledge that the more painful the foreplay, the more pleasurable the… play.

It was creeping towards 6:50 when Derek decided the time had come when it was appropriately early enough to kick things off. He slipped out of his car, patted down his leather jacket, dusted off his black pants, and marched up to the same door he’d assailed earlier that day.

“Delivery!” he called out and knocked the same seven times, grinning like the lunatic he was. After he’d done it he had to double-take for a moment because since when was Derek funny in any way? And since when did he start _grinning_ at _doors_? He’d always proved himself more of a straightforward and serious individual than one that was at all humorous.

The door opened to reveal Stiles wearing a stripy jacket over a concerning amount of plaid and for some reason that right there was the hottest thing Derek had ever seen, naked people notwithstanding. It was strange because Derek had realistically stumbled upon more objectively attractive people before: men and women. But somehow, subjectively, from the moment he’d laid his eyes upon the bright smile and unruly dark hair of Stiles, he’d been hooked.

“I was wondering when you were gonna get tired of creeping out there,” Stiles teased, and the lightness of his voice was like a breath of fresh air to parody all the heaviness of Derek’s life. His words, however, were akin to the knives Derek loved to twist into people’s guts. Stiles had just called him a creep, and that word hurt a lot more, for some reason, when Stiles said it. Derek wondered darkly what Stiles would have to say about some of his other… idiosyncrasies.

“Just building up the antici…pation,” Derek retorted in kind, pushing past the sickly realisation that perhaps Derek had already begun to (dare he say it) care about what Stiles thought of him. People that did the things he did shouldn’t have such soft points to them. When Stiles grinned in response, it set something bizarre off inside of Derek’s ribcage, so he hastily forced words out of his throat before he could think too much of what was going on, “You look good.”

“You look amazing.”

Again, there was that bizarre feeling. Derek was conflicted enough because he hated it and wanted to carve it out of himself on principle alone… but then he also craved it and wanted Stiles to feed into it more and more until consumed him whole. As far as first dates went, Derek imagined this wasn’t how most people felt, because if it was, then perhaps everybody was just as crazy as Derek.

“It’s still…” he peaked down at his watch to see it read: ‘6:57’, “three minutes early, but if you’re ready then I don’t mind getting this show on the road.”

“I’m sure we’ll find a place to make up that three minutes later,” Stiles followed himself up with a sleuth, “and what was it that you had planned, hm?”

Derek was still stuck somewhere on the ‘three minutes’ comment and imagining what the hell Stiles was potentially hinting at, so he blurted out what had become his go-to at this point: “Fuck.”

Fortunately, Stiles started laughing like this was all just a casual Wednesday night, and two thoughts intruded on Derek before he could stop them: the first was that he was incredibly lucky to find an individual that was carefree and kind enough to tolerate his questionable tact; and the second was that perhaps this _was_ just a casual Wednesday night for Stiles. It was entirely possible, in-fact, plausible, given his blithe demeanour, that Stiles slept with all kinds of men on Wednesday nights. Perhaps Wednesday night was Stiles’ casual sex night and Derek had just inadvertently fallen into his web of seduction and flirting like the fly he wasn’t. If it was true, then Derek couldn’t wait to bask in the surprise on Stiles’ face when he pulled the wool from over his eyes and showed him that it was, in reality, Derek that was pulling the strings here.

Somehow it didn’t comfort him too much in the daunting realisation that even if Stiles was something special for Derek, Derek probably wasn’t anything special for Stiles.

“What did I have planned?” Derek checked, because he’d lost himself again. He rubbed the back of his neck kind of awkwardly because, well, this was the first time Derek had ever done something like this, so he could only hope based on one afternoon of scrupulous research that it was the right thing to do. “I was thinking we’d go back to mine, watch a movie or two, and then I’ll make us dinner and…” he trailed off because Stiles was looking at him like he was strange and Derek wanted to punch himself because how the hell did he know the various intricacies of how to get away with murder but he couldn’t plan one stupid date without freaking out the other party?

When Stiles apparently realised that Derek had stopped listing off the details of what he considered a reasonably romantic evening, the other man stepped up to the challenge and broke the silence, “Sorry, it’s just…” a beat passed between them and Derek kind of regrets ever doing this now, because before this morning he was numb to everything and now he just wants to do stupid things like smother Stiles… with affection, “I’ll level with you here. I’ve never actually, y’know, dated,” he said the word like it was taboo, “a man.”

Derek’s brain short-circuited.

“I know, that’s weird, isn’t it? But like what you just described sounds like the most intimate first date I can imagine so I’m totally—”

“Neither have I,” Derek blurts out to cut off his tirade and the two of them fall silent for a moment.

They’re still standing there, gawking at each other on Stiles’ doorstep. It should feel awkward, it should put Derek on edge and make him want to lash out at someone like awkward situations normally would. Instead, it feels pleasant. It feels like a massive weight has been lifted off of them now that they’ve actually taken two seconds to think about what they’re about to get into. It’s also a pleasant relief that all of Derek’s dark thoughts regarding Stiles’ potential promiscuity with the male gender were completely unfounded. In a weird kind of way it excites Derek even more knowing that Stiles isn’t going to expect things to go a certain way tonight based on past experiences. It makes everything about Derek’s plan easier to pull off.

“Well I guess now that we’ve gotten that out of the way we should get on with the rest of the date, hm?” Stiles suggests, and he’s closing the door behind himself and locking it. When he turns his back to Derek and exposes himself so beautifully it’s almost too tempting to just cage him against the door, peel off his deliciously fitting clothing, and forget about any pretence of a date.

Instead, Derek huffs out a breath to clear his head and started back down towards his car; Stiles close behind. The moment he’s behind the wheel with the other man in the passenger seat, looking across the console at him, Derek realises that whatever chance there was that this was going to be a one-time-thing have now been completely erased.

Stiles was his, now, and after tonight the unsuspecting man would understand that without a doubt. As he pulled onto the street, Derek was veritably vibrating with excitement as a hundred different possibilities for the things their future together could entail came to him all at once.

 

The evening progressed so easily; so naturally for Derek that it was almost uncanny. He felt like he was almost a spectator to his own fate as he watched someone completely different to himself spending an evening with Stiles. There were foul thoughts clogging up Derek’s brain whenever he got a moment’s reprieve from the strange bliss that Stiles instigated. They were foul thoughts built around swiftly ending things with Stiles because he was too close; too grand a part of Derek’s world already after less than 24 hours.

But then Stiles would smile at him or make a flustered attempt at humour or playfully jab Derek in the ribs and then they were gone again, replaced with the far more pleasant thoughts of how good they were going to be together.

Derek had once again found himself entirely lost in Stiles’ eyes, but now the other man was giving him an imploring look. It hit him that he’d been asked something but it had gone completely over his head because he was too busy being a sappy idiot. It occurred to Derek for not the first time that perhaps he should be weighing up options here before committing himself so blindly to a stranger. There was certainly something a little bit… too perfect about Stiles. Everything from his clothes to his smile to his eyes to his potential male-on-male virginity. It was all like this morning a higher power had plucked a fantasy from Derek’s mind and made it into a reality. What if Stiles was an undercover agent? What if the police were actually closing in on Derek faster than he thought?

That didn’t matter, though. Whether Stiles was just an idea forged in the head of some devious detective or he was a real person, he was going to be Derek’s, and together they were going to be absolutely beautiful.

“Fuck,” Derek mumbled dumbly because whatever question Stiles had asked him, he probably didn’t have the right answer anyway.

Apparently whatever gods may be had smiled down upon him, though, because fourth time was the charm, and this time Stiles’ sly grin proved that he agreed with the sentiment. “I’m totally down for that.”

Derek moved before he was completely aware of what he was doing, surging across the couch and mashing their mouths together. He knew he was beyond uncoordinated and had barely any idea what he was doing, but what he knew seemed less important than what was happening here and now.

He pulled back after a few moments of awkward gnashing kisses, hoping to gauge by Stiles’ face whether what he was doing was in any way correct. He knew his face must have been stony as he took in Stiles’ flushed face and bright eyes, but his generally off-putting and unforgiving demeanour somehow didn’t compute for Stiles as he closed the distance between them again and chased Derek’s lips with his own.

Then it was too much, and it was all Derek could do not to explode as things he may never have felt before in his life surged through him. He shoved Stiles hard into the firm couch and blanketed his body with his own, winding their legs together and pushing harder and harder until Stiles made a gentle mewl of a sound and started to push back.

Now that there was friction, Derek started to frenzy. He had Stiles now, underneath him. He had him trapped, wedged between the couch and his body— _where he belonged_ , but there was still so much separating them. Clothes that just had no place being there.

“Off,” Derek gasped, pawing at Stiles’ shirt like he didn’t have opposable thumbs. It would probably be in poor taste for him to just unceremoniously tear it off of him, but god it was tempting. And he knew realistically that he’d probably have to remove himself from atop Stiles if he wanted to slip his pants off, but the thought hurt.

“Shit, Derek, let me breathe for a sec—”

“Off!” Derek roared, tugging up harshly on Stiles’ shirt and managing to get it off after a decent struggle. Then he slipped down Stiles’ body and hugged his hips as he loosened his pants before peeling them quickly off of him. It was like wrestling an unfairly attractive statue with how rigid Stiles’ joints were, but fortunately it was a wrestling match that had a highly incentivising prize to win.

When Stiles was finally, _finally_ in just his deliciously tight briefs, Derek wrapped his hands around the exposed skin of the man’s hips and pressed his fingers harshly into the flesh. His hands had always had a characteristic strength to them which made strangling the life from people particularly easy, but now he was using them to brand his mark onto Stiles’ skin. If there was ever a chance of Stiles escaping from him (there wasn’t), Derek was going to make sure that he’d always wear a few memories in honour of tonight. That way he’d never truly be free, even if he did run.

“Jesus, Derek!” Stiles gasped out and thwacked his hands ineffectually at where Derek’s were still digging hard into his hips. When he caught Stiles’ eyes and recognised the moment of uncertainty and panic beginning to flare up, Derek retreated his hands and instead smoothed them down his sides to distract from where there were now ten deep, finger-tip bruises painted over his hips. He looked even more beautiful with his marks on him.

Derek hushed the other man’s confused groaning by mashing their mouths together again, “Don’t worry,” he puffed out against the other man’s lips, “I’ll take care of you.” Stiles’ hands started to wander over his clothed chest desperate and wanton, and Derek felt a surge of arousal at the notion that he wasn’t the only one enamoured by the other. All evidence pointed towards the fact that Stiles was just as mindlessly affected by Derek as Derek was by him. He tore off his own shirt in one swift movement, uncaring as a few of the buttons tore off and the fabric protested. It was worth it to bask in Stiles’ moment of surprised arousal at suddenly seeing him bare-chested. His heart swelled, along with other parts of him, because Stiles was actually enjoying this! He was getting off on Derek’s hotness and Derek was getting off on Stiles’ hotness and suddenly they appeared to have such an amazing foundation for a potential relationship.

It took a few more minutes of manhandling and wrestling between them before Stiles had finally lost his briefs and Derek managed to relieve himself of the burden of wearing clothing altogether, but it was immeasurably worth it when Derek got to take in every centimetre of Stiles’ skin, laid bare for him like a canvas for him to paint with blood and pain and pleasure. This was going to be their first time together, so Derek knew he had to make it a memorable one, but it wouldn’t do for it to be so intense that Stiles became afraid to repeat it. Derek could make it amazing for both of them, he was sure, and he was going to do just that.

Even if he didn’t have much experience to call upon and his afternoon of research seemed wildly insufficient preparation for somebody as precious as Stiles, Derek was still a human after all. He had a biological imperative and enough general knowledge to know that if he stuck his dick inside of Stiles and swished it around a bit then eventually their bodies would make whatever adjustments they could to ensure that things weren’t completely agonising for them.

“On your stomach,” Derek declared, already nudging Stiles’ hips urgently for him to turn over because he was practically leaking cum out at this point. It seemed like a waste if he just blew things early without even getting to feel what it was like for them to be of one body.

Stiles started to turn, obediently, much to Derek’s delight, but he stopped midway to level Derek with a look of anticipation, “I mean, obviously this is a first time for me in this scenario,” the reminder just made Derek’s urge to ‘do him’ for lack of better terminology, all the more urgent. It might be new for the both of them right now, but Derek was confident that it could become a relatively familiar occurrence between them soon enough, “but don’t there need to be fingers and lube and a bed and a condom and—”

Derek scoffed at that, cutting him off, because, honestly, there was zero chance Derek had anything sexually viral. And if even if Stiles told him right then that sex with him would result in certain death for the both of them, Derek would have still pounded his brains out because he was a risk taker like that. He urged Stiles to turn the rest of the way onto his stomach and then smothered himself over the other man’s back so that every sensation, every breath, could be shared. “I told you I’d take care of you,” Derek promised, “I’ll even carry you to bed afterwards.”

Stiles huffed a laugh and Derek grinned toothily against the skin on the back of his shoulder as he bit down on it. It hit Derek not for the first time that night that a normal person probably didn’t seduce, date, and sleep with the man that delivered a book to them on the same day, but what did it matter at this point of Stiles wasn’t a normal person? Derek certainly wasn’t, and they wouldn’t be a match made in heaven if Stiles was just some boring civilian anyway.

He shifted his hips so that his heavy cock was riding the crease of Stiles ass, thrusting uselessly in a way that it would never quite slip inside where it belonged. Derek’s intention was to get some practice with his hip movements before the main event, but it served instead to drive himself absolutely insane (as if he wasn’t already).

After a period of just uncertain rutting on Derek’s part, Stiles shifted slightly, probably a bit uncertain himself at this point, and Derek inexplicably snarled at him. His side-objective to get through the copulation without setting off any red flags in Stiles’ mind was probably failed, but his main one to get the copulation done with in the first place was still a very real and very rapidly approaching success.

He sat up on his haunches and used both hands to spread the sweaty cheeks apart to expose his target. In his mind he imagined Stiles’ asshole to be… bigger; perhaps more realistically able to accommodate the girth of his dick. The reality was a tight, innocent little pucker that would probably tear if he went for it right now with something as big as his dick. He’d cut and smoothed the nails on his right hand especially for this exact moment, so without further ado he spat liberally on the man’s hole, took his right pointer finger and teased the tip of it inside with the slick of his spit to aid it.

When Stiles had no discernible reaction to the tip of his finger he took it as a challenge and jammed the rest of his finger in with one swift motion.

“Ah!” at that, Stiles made a sound that was one part surprise and one part pain; no parts pleasure. Derek could literally feel as the other man’s body seized up for a moment to try and stop the intrusion. He didn’t remove his finger, but he did lean down to plant a sloppy kiss to the centre of Stiles’ back, savouring the taste of his sweat.

“I’m sorry,” Derek said, but it hung in the air that they both knew he wasn’t. It was intoxicating, like already Stiles was relinquishing so much of his power to him. He kissed a pattern on the man’s back to distract him from any discomfort before experimentally wriggling his finger again. It was still clearly uncomfortable, but Stiles was quietly, stoically, working through it for him. He was so strong, and perfect, “You’re perfect,” he announced, pulling his finger out, spitting, and then immediately worked it back inside, “So perfect. All for me.”

However uncomfortable it was for Stiles, Derek was also suffering in his own right as he spent several agonising minutes methodically stretching Stiles’ tight little hole. Things came to a head when Derek retracted his fingers one final time and the tantalising thing clenched around the air and winked at him. Honest-to-god winked!

“Fuck,” Derek groaned, dropping his forehead down to Stiles’ back and taking a few steadying breaths. It seemed that profanity made up an alarming percentage of the words that Derek used around Stiles; an irony considering how little Derek swore in the many years prior.

“God, yes,” Stiles moaned like he was systematically trying to annihilate Derek’s higher brain function. If he was, then Derek couldn’t care less, “Please, just fuck me already.”

Derek was usually a rather selfish man, he could admit that, but in this situation it seemed a little altruism was in order.

He lined himself up without another moment’s hesitation, nudged the obscenely dripping head of his cock against his mark and pushed it in with a pivot of his hips.

The moment the bulbous head passed through the first, tight ring of muscle, it’s like a revelation and Derek starts to shake with a soul-deep ache for completion. It’s a completion that he’s chased his whole life and only achieved for a few brief moments whenever he gets to watch a body go cold and stiff. Now, it seems like Stiles can give him that completion for hours, days, weeks, months? What if being with Stiles made it so that the urge never crept up on him again? Could Derek do that: make himself stop after so many years of murder and routine and consistency? Frankly there’s no question because suddenly it’s as though his choice will always irrevocably gravitate towards the option which means he gets to remain with Stiles.

“So perfect,” he reiterated as he pushed through the remainder of any space between them until their hips were flush and Derek was as deep as he could possibly be inside of Stiles, “For me. Perfect for me.”

He meant it to be an almost-question; a kind of: ‘is this perfect for you as well?’ but something was lost in translation between his brain and his tongue because it came out as more of a threat, a warning. Because if Stiles isn’t going to let himself be perfect for Derek, then Derek’s sure as hell not going to let him be perfect for anybody else.

The thrill of allowing himself to be so open, so exposed and so raw for Stiles manifests in a humming thrill of excitement beneath his skin. A humming that his body is screaming at him can only be satisfied if he starts to move, starts to thrust and fuck into the willing and perfect body beneath him. Derek Hale is a lot of things: a sadist, a murderer, and some might argue a psychopath… but he wasn’t a masochist. So when his body started to brim with unspent energy that was just begging to be unleashed in a wild, animalistic display of lust, Derek let it out.

He hiked his legs up so he had a good position from which to piston his hips back and forth, and then he gave just four rapid thrusts in the space of a second. He gave a moment for the both of them to just breathe and acknowledge the majesty of the sensation; Stiles was perpetually moaning like he needed it, and Derek was grunting with the sheer force of trying to give it to him. They were truly made to satisfy one another.

The moment came and went and with it went Derek’s caution as he began to repetitively jerk his hips back before slamming his pelvis hard into the meat of Stiles’ ass. The sharp sound of their skin and their pain and their pleasure was intoxicating. The harsh rhythm of his desire for the other man pounded in his ears and left him little more than a passenger in his own body: holding on for dear life as something primal let itself loose to take and take and take. It felt remarkable, superseding any other kind of high Derek had ever experienced in his life. The sensation of Stiles’ slim hips squirming beneath him with each thrust was like dousing the fire within him with gasoline. Realistically he knew that Stiles was just humping the couch or maybe trying to chase a particular angle that their hips met at, but instead the action triggered the predatory instinct that Derek was all too familiar with. It made his blood burn all the hotter because whenever Stiles wriggled against his thrusts or shifted up the couch Derek’s mind seared with the idea that Stiles was trying to run; trying to escape, as ridiculous as that may have been. It made his thrusts harder, his hands tighten their grip on his hips, and it made his mouth bite down hard on Stiles’ collarbone.

The latter did the job because now Stiles couldn’t move without Derek shaking him around with his teeth.

With the other man immobile Derek changed his grip on his hips so that he was pulling Stiles back into every deep thrust of his hips. Soon it became too much and he purposefully held their pelvises together as he just ground his cock shallowly into Stiles’ beautiful body. Three dozen shallow, grinding swivels of his hips later and he finally stilled, in awe at the intensity of his own orgasm, before a haze took him over and his world was reduced to nothing except for the all-consuming serenity of the pulsing of his dick as it unloaded his semen into the man beneath him.

He wanted to pull out and look at the mess he’d undoubtedly made of the other man; he wanted to watch as proof of their compatibility oozed out of Stiles’ hole and dripped down his thighs; he wanted to spin Stiles around, kiss him and thank him profusely for getting that stupid book delivered so they could meet. He wanted a lot of things in that moment, but in a slip of clarity he realised that Stiles needed something as well.

“You were so good,” Derek admired, licking mutely at the now bleeding bite that he’d taken out of Stiles’ shoulder. His right hand remained fastened to Stiles’ hip, holding them together for as long as it took until Derek’s dick became too sensitive, but he snaked his left hand around and into the tiny space between Stiles’ body and the couch where his dick remained tragically overlooked and achingly hard. “So good for me,” he reiterated as he teased his fingers up Stiles’ throbbing shaft. Apparently Derek had been nailing it thus far (literally), because the light touch was enough to send him over the edge, cumming all over the couch. The spasms of his body milked Derek of whatever else he had left in him and he pulled out (albeit reluctantly) with a beautiful wet squelch.

“Holy fuck, Derek,” Stiles gasped, still laying on his stomach; a mess of his own release in front and a mess of Derek’s behind. He sounded wrecked, and it was the singular most beautiful voice he had ever heard. He wanted to exert Stiles harshly and repeatedly until he was consistently and thoroughly ruined so that he would forever be as beautiful as he was in that moment.

Derek stood from the couch, boneless for a moment before he managed to stop his head from spinning with endorphins. It was truly a sight to behold: Stiles on his stomach, completely vulnerable and used. He was tempted to take a picture and immortalise the occasion, but reasoned with himself that it would never be necessary because Stiles would _never ever_ be leaving him.

Still, he had a promise to uphold, so he nudged at Stiles’ side until he rolled onto his back with a grunt of discomfort. Then, with a strength not unlike that of mothers lifting cars off of newborn babies, he scooped Stiles up in his arms, crossed the threshold to his bedroom—his safe space—and gently deposited him in the centre of the bed. They both had their fair share of fluids on them as a result of their first time together, but Derek realised with a thrill of actualisation that he couldn’t care less.

“That was nothing like I imagined,” Stiles admitted, rolling to lay on his side, probably to avoid putting any pressure on the thoroughly-worked muscles in his backside.

Derek climbed into bed after him and rearranged himself so that they could face one another on the bed. “It was better,” he hazarded, hoping that Stiles felt the same but also knowing that he himself had been so out of it through most of the ordeal that he didn’t really know if Stiles had enjoyed it as much as his body indicated. All signs, including the very chaotic mess of Stiles’ own release on his stomach that was now in full view, pointed towards the reality that they both had their share of the fun, though.

“So much better,” Stiles agreed, voice cracking and enhancing the whole wrecked quality of it. “It was perfect.”

Derek grinned like a loon in the dark of the night then, because he could see even in Stiles’ exhausted expression that the other man could see it too. They both knew that what they had created that night was perfect. They both knew that this was the start of something new and exciting for both of them. They both knew that neither of them would be able to back out at this point; the deed was done, so to speak, and now Stiles had acquiesced himself to a life of being Derek’s and Derek a life of being Stiles’. And that was the epitome of perfection in Derek’s eyes.

“Perfect.”

**Author's Note:**

> Stuff that might not have been clear/explored in the story:  
> I imagine that the fanatic ex-gf of Derek's is Kate & FBI agent McCall is Scott's dad. I also imagine that 0 Hales excluding Derek survived the 'slaughter' and it was because he was 100% alone that he got all twisted. The last thing I imagine is that the reason Derek was so inexplicably enamoured by Stiles is because Stiles was at the sheriff's station after the 'slaughter', and the pair bonded on their losses (Stiles' mum, Derek's everyone) before Derek made his first kill and became all reclusive. From the experience they each developed a bit of a soul-deep crush on the other that just proliferated under the surface in the ol' subconscious mind until the events of this story happened. So basically neither of them remember the other from their childhoods. And they aren't just being vain and superficial with their attraction... much.
> 
> This is a reworking of another one of my fics from a different fandom.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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